Project Global Clarity
by Sueg5123
Summary: Impassioned Whistle-blower plus Journalists equals explosive situation. Solomon Hancock visits Charlie Skinner.
1. The Beslan Trigger

**THE BESLAN TRIGGER**

Millie buzzed.

"Charlie, if you're free," Millie began, falling into the universal _get-out-of-jail free-card_ opening spiel, to afford Charlie the final word as to whether to permit the interruption, "there's a gentleman here to see you. Mister Solomon Hancock."

Charlie swung his feet down from the desk and sat up straight.

_Hancock? Hadn't they just had the kiss-off meeting in which he'd told Hancock no-go on the story he'd pitched about NSA wire-tapping? That Hancock was a compromised source, not credible enough for media purposes? _

"Charlie?"

That was Millie prompting again, still feeling out whether he would see this unscheduled visitor.

Charlie squared his jaw. "Send him in."

He was willing to revisit the subject, learn whatever hadn't been said earlier. It might be a whale of a story—if they could find a way around Hancock as the messenger, that is. Perhaps Hancock had come to identify another potential whistle-blower to the Global Clarity caper, making the story feasible now.

In a rumpled seersucker suit and cradling a thick leather satchel, Solomon Hancock peered around the dark walnut door.

"Charlie?"

"Right here." Charlie strode over, gesturing to a chair at the conference table. "Let's sit, shall we? So, you've located another source for us who's willing to go on the record?"

"No. I haven't." Hancock shook his head.

"But—" Deflated, Charlie tried to regroup. "But I think we covered all this ground earlier. If you're the face of the story, you'll contaminate it. The downgrade to your clearance—your little problems with the law—all those things dilute the power of the story."

"I want to talk to your guy—the guy you had checking up on me. I can convince him. I know I can."

"Solomon. Come on. I told you before, I respect what you're trying to do. Nothing's harder than doing something for which you know you're gonna take shit. Trust me, journalists know this probably better than anyone else. But if _you_ are attached to this story, it's tainted. Worse, it begins to smack of you taking a cheap shot against the agency for downgrading your security clearance."

He sighed and checked his wristwatch. "Look, I'm kind of a busy guy and I thought I made it clear the other day. I told you we would continue to pursue the story as best we can—"

"_Without me_," Hancock finished with a bitter inflection. "That's not good enough, Charlie. Just let me talk to your guy. Let me add some _extenuating_ information."

Wearily, Charlie punched at the intercom. He couldn't help feeling sorry for Hancock, a man who obviously didn't have much going for him at this point in his life. "Okay. Wait one. Millie, call down to the bullpen and ask Harper to come up."

"This Harper is a good journalist?" Hancock asked.

"Yeah. Young, but that can be an asset. Less willing to take things on faith alone, you know." It seemed like an admission between two old contemporaries. "Covered the war in Afghanistan."

"Military?"

"No. Correspondent, whatever that means in a digital age. Hand selected by our EP—executive producer—who, by the way, is also rather spectacularly accomplished."

"Ah." Solomon Hancock finally dropped his closely held satchel to the floor and snapped the clasp.

oooo

"Hey, Jim, you're not going to believe this, but some guy—" Neal looked down at his notes, wanting to get the details correct, "Sohaib Athar, although his Twitter handle is ReallyVirtual—anyway this guy seems to have live-tweeted the entire raid. He just happened to be in Abbottabad and didn't know what he was seeing, of course, but—"

"Interesting _déjà vu_, but still just noise." Jim shot a look over his shoulder, where MacKenzie stood, arms folded, allowing him to run the rundown as she'd promised. He interpreted her silence as agreement. "Kendra?"

"We've got Admiral McRaven, the commander of the Navy SEALS. Narrow window, he's a pretty busy person this week. Since we'll only have a few minutes with him, we need to make every question count."

"Good. Draft some talking points, say eight or nine, and we'll let Will choose the ones he wants."

"Jim." Martin leaned in the door. "Charlie Skinner's admin assistant just called down. You're wanted upstairs."

Jim craned around to look at Mac, but she had already risen.

"Stay here, finish up. I'll see if I can answer whatever questions Charlie has."

Capping her pen, MacKenzie pushed through the glass door back to the bullpen, aware that Will, from his perch at the far end of the table, watched her depart.

_Good. Let him wonder._

After the tentative thaw of 'the Rudy hug,' the relationship between them had improved. No more open sniping. His dating escapades became less flagrant, seemingly not as calculated to inflict hurt. She thought a truce centering on mutual professional regard, if nothing else, had evolved.

But it was a brief reprieve and one ended shortly following the bin Laden telecast, when Will had gone on the air high and she had permitted it. The show had gone beautifully, so, of course, he perversely seemed to hold that against her. That or something else. She'd searched her memory but was unable to discern any crime she'd committed that warranted re-imposing the Arctic air between her and Will.

Then Will made the deliberate choice to bring in Brian Brenner to write about _News Night, _which clearly signaled nothing had been forgiven and never would be.

The only possible reason for having hired Brenner was to hurt Mac. She accepted that. She thought she probably deserved that.

But it didn't make it any more palatable.

She was miserable with Brian in such close proximity, always angling for a personal or professional dig. And it just wrenched her heart that Will would still do this to her. Hadn't she proven her worth by now?

Will appeared as maddeningly distant as he had been for a couple of months. He didn't even seem to take any satisfaction in the hurt he was inflicting.

An elevator car stood open at the landing and MacKenzie ducked into it, depressing the button for Mount Olympus. A human arm stopped the door from closing completely, sliding back to reveal Brian Brenner.

"Gotcha," he smirked. "Big scoop, huh, Mac? You came out of that meeting like you were shot out of a cannon."

"What do you want, Brian?"

"Still waiting to talk to you."

"You don't need me for this story. Will hired you—talk to him."

"I'm not his stenographer, MacKenzie." Brenner visibly bristled. "I came here to write a story about how Will McAvoy and _News Night_ changed overnight, but it's patently obvious that _you_ are the reason for the change in the direction of the show. McAvoy didn't seem unduly troubled by coasting through the last few years, so he doesn't deserve credit for changing the focus of the show. This whole precious _2.0_-thing reeks of your naiveté—and the timing, well, it's just happens to coincide with you arriving at ACN."

"It is him. It's the _him_ he used to be." Her defense was still full-throated; it was just that she couldn't bear to look Brian in the eye while she made it.

"_Woke Will?_" He laughed, crossed his arms, and leaned back against the folded elevator door. "Mighty damned courageous of him. But he's always leading from the rear, if you catch my meaning. He waits to find out the prevailing wind then just blows with it. Skinner brought you in and McAvoy embraced your ideas as an expedient. A surer path to glory. But what gets me is that this isn't merely his pathetic bid to stay relevant—it's that he's co-opted you, too. Covering the Weiner sexting. You must be so proud of your ethics now." He shook his head with amusement.

"Will is a brilliant man with an analytical mind and a passion for justice. There are compromises that have to be made in the real world, Brian. None of us are happy about covering Weiner and the Casey Anthony tragedy, least of all Will, but we have a bigger goal in mind. We're collaborating on the show, true, but—"

"Excuse me, but his boot-prints are all over you, MacKenzie," Brenner grinned. "In fact, I'm really surprised he didn't just follow you to _whatever-istan_ in order to get himself hailed as a great war correspondent." Pause for effect. "But, of course, he doesn't have that kind of stamina, does he? Professionally or—_personally_."

He let the insinuation hang in the air.

"I don't have time for this, Brian." She punched determinedly again at the elevator button, aware the effort was wasted while he blocked the door but still needing to take some decisive action.

"You know what, MacKenzie? I'm not the one who put me here. _I_ wouldn't have done that." He stepped back from the elevator door, allowing it to close. "He's okay with using you, but he doesn't want you. Can't you see that?"

Mercifully, the door closed, although Brian's words seemed to echo and resound in the chamber.

_Using you._

_He doesn't want you._

The defenses she'd spouted earlier now seemed hollow. Yes, Will was brilliant. Yes, he was passionate about the news, about giving citizens the information they needed to make good choices at the ballot box.

Yes—he'd also been too willing to settle for less.

But that was her fault, wasn't it?

When Charlie had called with the offer to return to a network control room, it figured as something more than simply professional validation for her. It was the opportunity to restore what had been broken between her and Will.

And once a collegial relationship had been reestablished, perhaps she could even hope that. . .

_Damn Brian for so completely and accurately reading the situation._

oooo

Two minutes after he had had Millie call downstairs for Jim, Charlie was having severe misgivings about entertaining Hancock.

The NSA analyst was making the same sing-song allegations about the NSA: the warrantless wiretapping of US citizens, FISA abuses, wanton data mining from business and social media. This time, however, he seemed more strident and less persuasive. Charlie began to wonder if perhaps some mental instability was in evidence.

At least, this time, Hancock had skipped removing the battery from Charlie's cell phone. Perhaps Hancock no longer was looking over his shoulder—or perhaps he was now resigned to possible surveillance—_perhaps_—

"You talk to Leona Lansing yet?"

"No. Still waiting for the proof you promised that would make her pay attention."

"Sorry, Charlie." He stopped and then laughed at the unintentional funny before resuming. "You know, I gave you the heads-up about the bin Laden mission. It's your turn to give me something before I can provide the evidence about TMI and the Lansings." He sat back and folded his hands.

"If my source is compromised, my story is compromised. Fruit of the poisonous tree. I told you that already."

"_Compromised_ because the staffer you sent to vet me was overwhelmed by some clever gas-lighting by the NSA. They're trying to discredit me. _That's what they do_, Charlie—that's why this is so important."

Charlie slid one elbow forward on the table. "Look, I want to help. I believe you, Solomon, I believe the things you're saying about the NSA. The Patriot Act is certainly ripe for perversion. But your credibility—"

"Charlie?" Across the room, Mac eased into the room, closing the door behind her. "Millie said you needed something."

"Are you Harper?" The unfamiliar man at the table with Charlie cut her off with his question. "Are you the one who did the vetting on me?"

She looked between Charlie and the unknown man, trying to suss out what dynamic was at work here. Something was out of the norm, that much was obvious.

"I'm MacKenzie McHale, the executive producer of _News Night with Will McAvoy_."

Charlie stood, relieved for the interruption. "Mac, this is Solomon Hancock. He works at the National Security Agency and he strongly believes we should investigate some abuses that may have been happening there under the guise of a project called Global Clarity."

She took it in, assuming that Charlie had been attempting to let Hancock down gently about the irregularities in his personnel files that had effectively nullified him as a whistle-blower.

"Jim—that's Jim Harper, my senior producer for the show—he's tied up right now with a production meeting, so perhaps I can answer your questions, Mr. Hancock. Whatever they are."

Suddenly, this didn't seem a very good idea to Charlie, and he waved a hand to excuse her. "Go on back to work, Mac, and I'll—"

"Come here." Hancock contradicted. "Over here. Come sit down with us. We were just talking about how you validate your sources. I'd like to know."

Relaxing a bit, she approached the conference table near the window. "You're the one who tipped us about the bin Laden raid."

Hancock made a single nod of affirmation.

"Mr. Hancock takes issue with some of Jim's findings."

She nodded sympathetically. "I understand. It's disturbing to find that highly personal information has been weaponized against you. But I assure you that Jim had no bias—he's thorough, and he's fair. The sort of material that might seem like routine biographic ups-and-downs can be a serious liability in whistle-blower cases. You aren't, um, _rock solid_, as we say—not the kind of source who will compel the viewers to believe the story. For our purposes, I'm afraid we have to have _rock solid_."

She paused and moved a little closer. "NSA told Jim your clearance was lowered based upon your last psych assessment—"

"You know damn well that isn't releasable information, even if it were true, which it isn't. It's retaliation." Hancock looked from Mac to Charlie and then back again. "It's a violation of privacy act laws—it denies my administrative due process—"

Mac listened to the protest and nodded but continued. "Then there was the restraining order that you violated—"

"I wanted to see my kids, and she was using visitation as a bargaining chip in the divorce—"

"Nevertheless—"

"You're not hearing me," Hancock protested. "All of this has been orchestrated—designed to squelch what I know, what I have to say. The NSA is doing bad shit, totally unchecked, and it is _your_ responsibility, the media's responsibility—"

"We can't." Charlie chimed in, intending to be the final word. "We can't risk associating a story of this magnitude with you."

"Well, let's see what you _can_ risk, Charlie." Hancock rummaged through the bag at his feet and withdrew a small cylindrical gadget wrapped in silvery duct tape. A lever jutted out at a forty-five degree angle and Hancock squeezed it until there was an audible click.

He looked up at them, smiling sunnily. "That secretary of yours outside. Nice lady. You ought to send her home for the day."

Charlie frowned, struggling to keep up with the peculiar change of topics. "Millie? Send her—? I don't—"

"Because I've armed this now and otherwise the blast radius will take her out, too."

Mac unpacked Hancock's meaning a fraction of a second ahead of Charlie, her memory suddenly jogged enough to recognize the threat in the device Hancock held. "Beslan," she whispered, more to herself than the others.

Hancock laughed outright and looked to Charlie. "She's good," he said, approvingly. "Now, you make that call and send that out there woman home. Okay?"

Charlie looked from Mac to Hancock and back again, trying to discern what he'd missed. The verbal threat was unmistakable. He just couldn't see the basis for it.

Hancock read his confusion and nodded at Mac. "You tell him."

Following a long pause, she cleared her throat. "Remember the Chechen terrorists in 2004?"

"They took a lot of hostages at a Russian school." Charlie still couldn't put it together.

"Over eleven hundred. It was one of the first stories I covered. Not that many western journalists are fluent in Russian," she added. "But the terrorists used a very specific apparatus—a crude deadman's switch. They called it the Beslan trigger."

Charlie picked up the phone. "Millie. I don't think I need anything more today, so why don't you take the afternoon—no, no, I'm sure—please, just go. _Now_."


	2. Still Late for Dinner

**Still Late for Dinner**

As his eyes followed MacKenzie out of the conference room, Will had to remind himself of what he'd told that young shrink weeks earlier.

_My feelings are completely resolved._

_She's my professional partner. We're friends._

_This is enough._

Except Will was no more convinced now than he had been then.

When Jim and the others returned to parsing the schedule for tonight's show, Will glanced at the bullpen and saw Mac make the hard left to the elevator landing. He saw Brian Brenner follow.

Whatever gratification he had once imagined he would feel at seeing Brenner and MacKenzie pick up where they left off was completely dampened by the emotional gut punch of it.

_Hand over the flame? Hell, this was more like a fucking blow torch._

When he brought Brenner in to write a piece for _New York_ Magazine, it was for the purpose of… well, _testing_… MacKenzie. He knew it would torture her, which in itself was always good for a few minutes of conflicted satisfaction before giving way to inevitable regret and, finally, resentment that he still felt so strongly.

But this time, mainly, he'd been secretly hoping she would pass the test. He hadn't expected her to succumb this quickly.

_My bad._

So. That was that. It explained why she hadn't made any comment about the voice mail he'd left her a month earlier.

Slinking further down into his chair, Will torqued his jaw and picked up his pen and resumed making cross-hatches on the legal tablet in front of him.

"Is that okay, Will?"

_Huh_?

The faces ringing the table were turned toward him and Jim looked expectant.

"I said, we have the Assistant Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police."

Will dropped his chin and raised his eyebrows, clearly conveying that that information alone was insufficient to know what subject was under discussion.

Jim took the hint and offered a hurried recap.

"The new allegations about the _News of the World_ phone hacking. The police have contacted contacted the parents of those murdered schoolgirls—they think they may have been hacked, too. Anyway, we've got a remote with the AC and I thought we'd put it at the top of B. That is, if you agree?"

Will considered. With the ratings tanking, did it really make sense to prominently feature international stories now? Wouldn't it be better to focus on domestic issues, stories of more immediate interest to his viewers? Like—

_Anthony Weiner's dick pix?_

"Top of B is good. Anything else? No? Then, I've got some other things I need to work on."

Gathering his papers, Will strode out and crossed the bullpen to his office. He tossed his tablet on the desk and sat back, flicking the remote to one of the screens on the wall. Keeping the sound muted, he watched the talking head of a rival network.

"Checking out the competition?" Brenner hung in the doorway. "Got a sec?"

"This isn't really—uh, it's not a good time—" Will tried to look busy, swinging his feet back to the floor and picking up some papers from his desk with an air of impatience.

The other man carried on as if Will hadn't spoken.

"I wanted to ask about this debate thing. Everyone's working on it, but no one'll talk to me about it. Your man Harper has the whole bullpen in some kind of lock-down mode."

"Ask MacKenzie," Will returned, not disguising the bitterness. "I'm sure she'd _love_ to go over it with you."

Brenner hesitated, seeming to calculate the depth of Will's off-handed-but-obviously-pointed comment. "If only that was the case. Mac and I aren't really on collegial terms."

Privately pleased by that admission, Will nonetheless tried to maintain a poker face. "Yeah?"

"Let's level, okay? You'd like for me to believe—what?—that you hired me for some vanity profile? You could have hired any ghost-writer in the city, and we both know this city teems with them. Hell, you could have hired anyone on your own staff to write a puff piece or even reached across the aisle to the mercenaries at TMI. But you reached out to _me_—"

"Because," Will shrugged, "as I told you before, your recent complications notwithstanding, you have a reputation for covering the media better than anyone out there."

"Yeah. You gave me all that Camelot shit. You want my imprimatur on some glowing magazine piece. So that I can give you all credit for the professional about-face that was so obviously engineered by MacKenzie. Sometimes, I think you've got a full-blown messianic complex and that you—"

"Messianic?" Will repeated the term with all the sarcasm he could muster. "Actually, I'd settle just for being portrayed as me." He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "Brian, you aren't going to hurt my feelings with whatever prose you turn out."

"Fuck your feelings, Will. I think you want me here for another reason."

"What would that be?"

"Cocksmanship. You want to rub my nose in the fact that you fucked MacKenzie behind my back—"

Will's eyebrows shot up in unspoken surprise.

"—To put me in my place as the cuckhold. And given the fact that you obviously haven't reconciled with Mac either, I think you're enjoying making her wear your scarlet 'A'."

Will shook a cigarette from the package on his desk and lit it, affecting calm when he blew the smoke in one long stream. "You think all this—and yet you're _here_, Brian."

"You fucked my girlfriend when we were going through a rough patch." A bald accusation.

"Rough patch? You're implying, what, that Mac used me to cheat on you? That's rich. How do you account for the email that was accidentally blasted to 178,000 people?"

"I can't. Unless she actually—still has—_feelings_—" Brenner stopped abruptly. "She's gullible enough. And stubborn. She doesn't let go easily." He smiled. "You know, your mistake was in putting her on some pedestal. She never deserved it and didn't know how to handle it."

"You're here to write about the show," Will returned, evenly. "We're not going to have a conversation about Mac unless it pertains to _News Night_ and her role as executive producer.

"But we ought to, because you've obviously fooled yourself into believing you've got something to defend here, friend." Brenner braced himself insolently against the doorjamb.

"We're not friends, Brian. Go see Jim again. I'll tell him to let you see all the debate prep they're doing and what the purpose it. Whatever you want to see."

"You pull all the strings all the time, don't you?" Brenner returned, coolly, his stare scornful and superior.

"Yeah. Must be that messianic thing you were talking about earlier."

oooo

"I just need to be heard. Someone has to listen to me."

"We're listening," Charlie soothed. "We _want_ to tell your story, we really do, but—"

"But you aren't sure you believe me. They're feeding you this bull about clearances and personal indiscretions and you're buying it. I tell you, Charlie, I'm a _man_ and I've lived a man's life. It hasn't been a perfect life, but I'm a good man, an honorable man, and I've done my duty by my family and my country. You can't allow them to spin it to make it seem as though I'm not believable, that I have—I don't know—ulterior motives, delusions—"

"Wait, Solomon, no one's saying anything like that—"

"You guys—you journalists—" his inflection was harsh, "—you never have any skin in the game. You just—"

"Bullshit."

Despite the dubious value of arguing with an impassioned man who may or may not be holding the trigger to an explosive device, Charlie was unable to let the insult pass. He had to defend himself, if not ACN and the entire profession. "We just don't take our responsibility as lightly as you think. We research, and damn right we verify. We have to get it right the first time, because our credibility is on the line with every telecast."

He paused and when he resumed, his voice had taken on a gravelly tone. "Oh, and personally speaking—I spent twenty-two months in Da Nang—was airlifted from Saigon three days before the fall—and her—" he said, gesturing to MacKenzie. "Helmand—Kandahar—Islamabad. Don't confuse us with your spooks and paper-pushers at Fort Meade."

Charlie's outburst seemed to chasten Hancock a little.

"The enemy's not out there, Charlie. It's here—it's us. The enemy is the NSA and the area of operations is right here on our native soil. And so I have to do a little wrong now in order to do a big right, to bring the attention where it needs to be—"

"Blowing us up is a _little_ wrong?"

"I'll put you on the air, Mr. Hancock." Mac leaned forward earnestly.

Charlie's eyes bulged with disbelief but he choked back his protest to hear the rest of Mac's offer.

"Right here, from this room. Today."

Hancock released a pent up breath. "I didn't want to be attached to this. I just wanted to, you know, give you guys the clues and let you expose the dirt. What the NSA's been up to. But if they've tried to trash my name, I guess it's kind of late to insist on anonymity." He paused for several long moments.

"You gonna make me look stupid?"

"No. I promise you that. If you'll let me call down for some equipment, I'll handle the whole taping myself and walk you through every—"

"Taping?" Hancock looked suspicious. "Not live?"

She spread her hands helplessly and made a placating smile. _This was going to be tricky._ "There's got to be some substantiation of your allegations. We need to do open records searches—cross-correlate known surveillance targets and FISA warrants—"

"That will take weeks. And I know from experience that there's nothing bureaucrats move faster on than freedom of information requests from the media." He made a sour face that clearly conveyed the opposite.

"Well, to speak plainly—as long as you have _that_," she inclined her head at the device he held, "I can't put you on live air. It might look like a—"

"Like a hostage scenario?" Hancock finished for her.

She swallowed and made a tight nod. "So, there would be some, uh, _ethical_ concerns. Also some potential issues with—_personal safety_. Yours as well as ours. But we could tape a segment and run with the information you provide us. Once we've verified some of the particulars, I promise you we'll go to air."

Hancock took a long pause, adjusting his grip on the detonator. "You're trying to _handle_ me, lady. I can see through it."

When the sharp rap came at the door, Hancock's head bounced up and his eyes sought the source of the noise. In the space afforded by the tiny distraction of a new voice in the room, MacKenzie threw herself around the table, bringing both of her hands down over his and squeezing hard.

Hancock's attention returned to her and he tried to shake her off. When that had no effect, he extended his free left arm and struck her with his closed fist.

She recoiled from the blow but didn't loosen her grip.

"What the fuck?"

Will's voice. Will was here.


	3. Boom

_Fuck Brian._

As soon as the other man left Will's office, Will hurled the remote control for the television monitor across the room, where it knocked over two framed photos on the shelf.

The sound of breaking glass wasn't nearly as satisfying as he might have hoped, so after a cautious look to make sure no one outside the office had heard the ruckus and was about to respond, Will eased over to appraise the damage. One frame was simply folded over, so he righted it, but the glass on the other had shattered. The photograph itself, one of him with James Baker, Secretary of State in the Bush 41 administration, seemed undamaged.

Will shook the broken glass into the wastepaper basket and made a mental note to ask Maggie to get him a digital photo frame as replacement.

Returning to his original train of thought—and, _fuck Brian_ again, for good measure—he knew he needed to give Jim permission to divulge the new debate format to the interloper. Will didn't want a repeat of the conversation with Brenner, and he was beginning to reconsider the wisdom of being profiled by a writer whom he found personally repellent.

_Buyer's remorse, Will?_

_Fuck that, too_, Will decided, reaching for the packet of cigarettes before casting them away in favor of punching at the intercom button.

"Jim. Hey, I want you to let Brenner see what you guys are doing with the debate prep—no, no secrets—"

_Except for the big one, of course._

"—yeah, even the mock-up. Answer his questions. Tell the others, okay?"

That repugnant chore attended to, he leaned back in his chair.

Brian Brenner was a shit and he hated having him here. He also hated putting up the old boundaries again with MacKenzie, because there had been some moments of thaw, some moments when the scales had seemed to balance and—

No. Don't go there. Don't go all _extravagant_ with the warm fuzziness. MacKenzie had been the source of perfidy and betrayal, hadn't she? Let alone these insinuations that she was, _what_, the wind beneath his fucking professional wings?

_Fuck Brian_. Once more, with feeling.

Will didn't need this. He had earned his cred. He'd put in his time in the anchor chair, nearly a decade since 9/11, and that was a lifetime in this business.

Still—there _was_ a clear line of demarcation between _Before MacKenzie_ and _After MacKenzie_. Brian spotted it after only days in the newsroom. Even Will had to concede that the show he had done on his own, pre-MacKenzie, had been simply coasting, journalistically speaking. It was only after Mac came on board that the fire had kindled, that the show became something of which they could all be truly proud.

Admitting the truth stung his pride, that was the thing. Well, that and having Brian Brenner be the one to recognize it and call Will out on it.

Brian had also remarked, with devastating accuracy, on the state of things between Will and Mac. That Will was tormenting Mac ("I think you're enjoying making her wear your scarlet 'A'") and that she—well, that she might be _gullible_—_stubborn_—enough to harbor hope in spite of Will's petulance and emotional maltreatment.

Will hated that Mac was that transparent to Brenner. It was humiliating to her.

Precisely the kind of humiliation that Will had designed and installed especially for _her_. Except, he really hadn't meant for anyone but the two of them to know it. He had certainly never intended to provide Brenner with this amusement.

The realization that Will had done exactly that suddenly hurt and embarrassed him. Not two months earlier, he'd been on the brink of telling her the truth, and now he was being cruel, arbitrarily cruel, so cruel that it was noted by a stranger to the newsroom.

Perhaps there had been a good reason for Mac not having returned his call the night of the bin Laden telecast. Perhaps she was still sorting out her own feelings. Perhaps his recent behavior had caused her to pull back.

Perhaps she'd thought he was—well, _high_.

_Perhaps_—and this was the comic option that couldn't be overlooked following the email fiasco—perhaps she was so technologically inept that she'd accidentally _deleted_ his message before playing it back.

Of course, it was equally possible that his first assumption had been correct and that she didn't want to resume any relationship. Even in that case, given her inestimable contribution to the success of the show—didn't he owe her better than to parade a former lover in front of her?

_Who are you kidding, McAvoy? Imagining she'd ever care after _this_?_

Will got to his feet. He either needed to finally fire her or apologize to her and he wasn't sure which, just that it needed to happen _now_.

oooo

"Hey, Charlie, you look like a hostage. I hope you—"

The words, an innocent attempt at a joke, spilled from Will's mouth before he put together the scene in front of him.

Charlie was braced on the arms of his chair, frozen, and with a look of alarm that Will had never seen in the man before.

Another man, a burly stranger, also with a look of surprise, seemingly prepared to—_strike_?—MacKenzie?

And what was she doing, stretched over the corner of the table, fumbling over something in the man's grasp?

"Will—stay out—don't—"

Charlie's warning went unheeded as Will ran to catch Hancock's free arm before it descended.

"What the fuck's happening? Has everyone taken crazy pills today?"

"Will!" Charlie bleated again. "There's a bomb—he's got a device of some kind—"

Will snagged and held Hancock's wrist and reached for the other to relieve Mac.

"No!" Charlie and Mac each shouted, separated by seconds.

She laced her fingers over the back of Hancock's hand and grimly doubled down.

"Lady, you don't have to—_ow_, shit. That's one vise-like grip you got there, but you really don't have to—I mean, not that hard—"

Will looked at the three others in turn, still trying to put it all together. Nothing made sense.

"He says he has a bomb and if he lets go—"

"Charlie," Mac interrupted, speaking over Charlie in an urgent tone of voice, "call—go get somebody—security—"

Charlie bobbed his head and threw out his hand in unspoken agreement, before running from the room.

Hancock stopped twisting his arm, and Will forced it to the table, careful to keep a firm grasp.

"Relax, man," Hancock sighed, nodding at Will. "I'm not going to fight you." Then, turning to Mac, "You okay? I'm sorry I had to—" He stopped abruptly, deciding not to insult her with a lame apology. Back to Will, he added, "Her hands are probably getting tired by now, though. Right?—uh, I forgot your name, lady. With everything going on and all—"

"MacKenzie." She bit back offering just "_Mac_," because it seemed unduly familiar to offer one's nickname to a stranger with an explosive device.

"MacKenzie," Hancock repeated before turning back to Will.

"What the hell is going on?" Will raged a second time, demanding a real explanation this time.

"The detonator he's holding—it's a deadman's switch. If he lets go—"

_Ah_. That explained why Mac had a death grip on the other man's left hand.

_But who the hell was—_

"Hancock. Solomon Hancock. Lately of the NSA, but I sort of think there's going to be an extra line in my obituary after today."

Once again, Mac interrupted. "Charlie's source. The one we were vetting. The one who promised to deliver the goods about phone hacking by TMI."

"He came here to bomb Charlie because the story didn't pan out?"

"To _persuade_," Hancock interjected.

"Yeah, bombs can be persuasive." Dryly.

"I had to do _something_ to make you people take me seriously."

"So, this is all our fault? For fuck's sake."

"Language, language," Hancock reproved, with a slight indication in Mac's direction. "I knew the press was coarse, but I assumed you guys would be a little more—I dunno, _refined_. Erudite."

"We're absolutely as loutish as the print guys," Will muttered, not disguising his sarcasm.

"_Will_." That was Mac, trying to herd him back to affability.

"Hey. You're the guy on TV, aren't you?" Without waiting for Will to acknowledge that Hancock plunged on. "Didn't expect you to be such a big guy. Kinda figured you for an Anderson Cooper physique." He shrugged apologetically. "Anyway, I usually watch the other guy, the one on MSNBC."

Will shrugged to show that no offense was taken and, under Mac's scolding glance, he dropped the antagonism in favor of a different approach.

"I worked in government once, too."

Hancock viewed him suspiciously. "You like it?"

"Yeah. Most of the time. Every now and then I felt like I made a difference."

"What'd you do?"

Will thought quickly. Speechwriter for a president didn't seem like the kind of résumé information likely to promote fraternal feeling in a government worker with a grudge. In fact, it seemed like precisely the sort of _in-your-face_ elitism that might set him off. So, he looked for a euphemism.

"Communications."

Hancock made a little hum of condescension. "I figured as much. A lotta words. Not much meaning to back them up." He paused. "So, I suppose you're just going to let me rattle on until, what, the cops break down the door or something?"

_Something like that,_ Will thought. Then that reminded Will that this wasn't simply banter with a stranger. There was real danger here, a real threat, and both he and Mac were still squarely in harm's way.

"You okay?" he asked her.

She nodded and tried to make a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, Mr. TV Star. The extensor tendons in my other hand aren't strong enough to overcome the force even this small woman can exert. Closing the hand is a privileged motion—opening it is a burdened motion. So it would be almost impossible for me to open my hand against whatever resistance she provides. Same theory as holding an alligator's mouth closed with just two fingers." Hancock sighed dramatically. "In other words, you're perfectly safe. Unless she tires or slips."

Will looked back to Solomon Hancock. This guy didn't fit the profile of what he imagined a bomber to be. He looked middle aged and benign, only vaguely desperate and not particularly deranged.

"Where's the bomb?"

Hancock settled back in his chair, smiling affably. "In my bag, here on the floor. Four bricks of Semtex."

Even Will knew that was a plastic explosive. He'd probably seen it in a movie or read about it in some spy novel. He wet his lips and tried to think of something else to ask, something that might help the situation.

"Not as stable as C4, but it's a heckuva lot easier to come by. And cheaper, because that's a consideration for me, too, since I'm sure the weasels at NSA also told you I'm a little over-extended right now."

"How is setting off a bomb at Atlantis Cable News going to get you what you want? It changes the story," Mac said, reasserting herself into the dynamic. "It won't validate anything you've alleged."

"My willingness to kill myself—and you fine people, too—is vindication enough."

"Crazy doesn't equal vindication."

While Hancock glared at Will, Mac rushed to ratchet down the tension.

"What Will is trying to say is that by threatening innocent lives, you'll probably be perceived as—as—as _not rational_." She took a breath and adjusted her grip. Her fingers had begun to ache with the strain. "Think about this, Mr. Hancock. You'd really rather have us run with the story than do this. You said you have a family. Consider them." She paused to permit him to make the connection before she resumed. "Why don't we go back to where we were earlier, when I said we'd try to substantiate what you have to say through other sources. You'll be treated fairly, you have my word."

"Fairly? After this?" Hancock made a dismissive snort.

Will released a pent up breath and wondered what the hell was keeping the cavalry that Charlie should have dispatched by now.

"You married?" Hancock's question took Will off-guard.

Pause. "No."

"Never met the right one?"

Gallantly—_or cravenly_—Will opted for silence.

"Yeah, well, my marriage didn't go so well, either, not at the end. Guess you heard all about that from whatever garbage NSA fed you. But the thing is, I liked it. The marriage, I mean. Not every minute, and not at the end, but by and large—I liked being married. I liked knowing that I mattered to someone."

He turned to Mac. "How about you? You married? Got kids?"

Will kept his eyes down but could picture her shaking her head. He found himself wishing she could lie.

_Just this once._ Perhaps play upon this man's sympathies—

"Tough for you ladies in the working world, huh? I saw it in government work, 'specially in intel work. Careers force sacrifices that—" he stopped and recalibrated, as if an important realization had hit him.

"Of course not. _Kandahar_—_Islamabad_—those places that Charlie Skinner talked about earlier—people with other choices don't usually choose war zones."

"It was my job to follow the news," Mac insisted. "At that time, the news was coming from those places."

"Uh huh." Slowly, in an unconvinced tone of voice.

"Someone needed to cover the—there were _two_ conflicts, and the American people needed to know—"

"When'd you get there?"

"2007."

"Lady, those wars started a long time before you arrived. If it was so important to cover them in person, why'd it take you so long to get there? I'm thinkin' that instead of running to cover a war, you might have been running away from something—"

"She doesn't have to answer," Will broke in with his lawyerly training, while transmitting telepathically, _Stop volunteering information, Mac_.

Hancock cast a sidelong glance at each of them in turn. "Have I touched a nerve?" Finally, he resumed. "Okay. So, that was the glamor part of your career and now you're here, as—what?—his work wife?"

_Work wife? _It sounded so… demeaning. So condescending.

_He's just using you. _Brian's words reverberated like bad heartburn.

"Ah." Hancock recognized the guilty admission on their faces. "I see we're in Double Jeopardy now. Alex, give me Office Relationships for one thousand."

The sudden _non sequitur_ threw them, but Will recovered first.

"Ignore him." He craned to meet Mac's eyes. "He's just trying to get inside our heads. Mind games. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"The same kind of satisfaction you get from having brought Brian into _my_ newsroom to write—"

"Wait, who's Brian?"

"This is a private conversation," Will warned. "And, _whose_ newsroom?"

"Former boyfriend," Mac inserted.

"What a dick move!"

"Do you mind?"

"Hey, I'm here all night. Ba-dum ching. Rim shot." One side of Hancock's mouth twisted into a smile.

Will was unamused. "Brian's just—just—he's just a _rejoinder_. That's all."

"A _rejoinder_?" Hancock struggled to make the connection.

Mac clarified. "He's a test, another test. Have I passed?"

"Aw, you know it isn't like—"

"You missed your cue, friend," Hancock tutted. "You were supposed to say, _yes_."

"How 'bout I put my other arm around your throat?" Will threatened in response. Then, seeking out Mac's eyes again, "Look, I'm—I didn't mean it that way. I thought that maybe if you saw a side-by-side comparison—"

"You didn't really think that."

Will waited for another extemporaneous jibe from Hancock to save him from having to respond directly to her words. When it didn't come, he finally admitted, "No. Just trying to save my hide."

"And doin' a bad job of it, too." Hancock made a soft, low whistle. "So you were rebound-guy, huh? Am I right in thinking he was dumping her and you walked into Stage Three of the dump? Heh. Well, fools rush in, don't they?"

"You know, I can handle this without your input."

"'S fine with me. Don't pull me down with you." Hancock leaned back. "But didn't you ever think about where her head might be at that time?"

"I just remember where _my_ head was at when she—"

"I don't know where your head is at, _ever_," Mac shot back. "After the Valentine's Day show—after the bin Laden show—I thought, I thought we were making progress. I thought I'd earned your trust back and that perhaps there was a chance, another chance—"

"Can we just not have this conversation right now? Anyway, I thought I was _defending_ you."

"From what? From the insinuation that my career might have been more important to me than a relationship? It _wasn't_, and you know that, but even if—"

"I gave you another chance—remember that voice mail? You've made it pretty plain that you weren't—"

"I don't know what you're talking about, as usual, but I know that this whole time you've enjoyed making me feel guilty for ruining the life we might have had together. Why did you keep the ring, Will? Just to remind me I'd made the wrong choice? Wasn't it a longshot to hold on to it and assume that our paths would cross again one day and you would be able to taunt me with it?"

Will cleared his throat and dipped his chin at Hancock, who was still following the discussion with obvious interest. "Why don't we, you know—_wait_—perhaps table this until later?"

"Well. Hold the flippin' phone." Hancock grinned, delighted with the newest revelation. "So, this little office affair—it made it to the ring stage?"

"No—yes—" Will stammered out responses, trying them on for each of his questioners. "Wait, this isn't—"

There was a rustle at the door and two uniformed officers peered through before retreating.

_Some calvary_.

Hancock looked sanguine. "Building security, I reckon. They won't be cleared to do anything on their own, and, anyway, I've got me two human shields."

Fortunately for all, Charlie Skinner's sudden reappearance provided a timely interruption.

"Charlie." Will welcomed the distraction. "What the hell's keeping—"

"I—_uh_—the police are on their way." He sought out Mac's eyes in particular. "You hanging in there, kiddo?"

"What's happening out there?" Will asked.

Charlie went to his desk and lifted the phone. "Actually, what everyone wants to know is what's happening in here. They want an open line." He set the phone console down on the conference table and pushed a button. "So I'm going to leave this—"

"Wait, you're leaving?"

"Jesus, Will. The bomb squad's on its way. What am I gonna do?"

Charlie withdrew, carefully pulling the door closed behind him, and Will took the opportunity to underscore what he hoped Mac would find a comforting thought. "Help's on its way, Mac. We're going to be all right."

Hancock turned back to Mac. "You were sayin'—"

"You don't have to say anything more," Will ground out.

Hancock paused, reacting. "Mac. Wait—_Mac_?" Since his hands were constrained and he was unable to smack himself in the forehead at the sudden epiphany, Hancock settled for a very theatric roll of his eyes. "_Mac_Kenzie. Of course. _You're_ Mac. I even heard Charlie call you that and I just never put it together—"

Grinning, Solomon Hancock tried to lock eyes with Will. "She never got it. She doesn't know what you're talkin' about."

Impatiently, Will shifted his weight. "Do you have a point to make or is this just—"

"I'm makin' my point, if you'll just listen. You're the one whose calls were being intercepted." While Will processed that information, Hancock bellowed in the direction of the open telephone. "Charlie, are you listening out there?"

"Uh, yeah. Right here."

"Good. Did you ever look at that stack of transcripts I gave you?"

"The ones of your Congressional testimony? I looked at the first couple of pages. Then—well, I thought I should wait until—"

"Until I'd been vetted, yeah, yeah. Anyway, have you got them near you now?"

Sounds of shuffling papers filled a few seconds.

"They're in my hand."

"Okay," Hancock nodded. "Flip to the back. You're going to see transcripts of a coupla calls—"

"Hacked calls?"

"Yep. Have you got them?"

"Yes." There followed a long pause while Charlie evidently digested the contents. "_Holy fuck_. This is me to Leona. Someone hacked _me_."

"Yeah, well, you're gonna wanna get over that outrage pretty quickly, Charlie. Now, how about the other one?"

"—he hacked me, _me_, on a call to his mother—" Charlie's ire was palpable even through the open phone line.

"Charlie, I want you to read me the other transcript."

"_That asshole_."

"Got the whole asshole thing. Now, focus, Charlie," Hancock chided. "Time is growing short."

With a few additional expletives, Charlie audibly flipped a page.

"'_Hey, Mac, it's me. Look, I'm not just saying this because I'm high._'"

Suddenly, Will seemed panicked. "Charlie— we're _hearing_ this, you know, so, _d__on't_. You don't have to say what it said—"

"_Hearing_ it is kind of the point," Hancock rumbled. "Go on, Charlie. Read the rest of it right now. Aloud," Hancock chuckled. "I've been listening to six degrees of Brian Whatshisface, and it's time for some comic relief."

"Shut up!" Will and Mac each yelled in perfect unison.

Through the open phone line, Charlie paused before resuming, slowly, the words registering with him as they settled on the others.

The timbre of Charlie's voice changed, reflecting how the words he read affected him.

"'_I've never stopped loving you. You were spectacular tonight._'"

Mac, her eyes flitting from Hancock to the phone and, finally, meaningfully, to Will, made a slight frown and stood as nearly erect as she could manage without loosening her grip on Hancock and the trigger he clutched. "I never got that call," she said quietly.

Mercifully for Will, the patently uncomfortable Charlie on the other end of the line cleared his throat and continued.

"Um, there seems to have been a long pause. Then, '_Can you believe we got Obama_?'" Charlie broke from the script at this. "What the fuck, Will? _Obama_?"

"I didn't say it on air, Charlie—"

"Thank god for minor miracles!"

"I never got that message from you," Mac repeated. "Why didn't you—"

"I thought—there was something else I said that came before. Something about how if you didn't—you could just ignore the call, and ever not bring it up again—"

Two men in full black tactical gear, replete with helmets and faceshields, materialized in the doorway, interrupting Will by their presence.


	4. The End of the Line

"Out of time," Hancock murmured.

"Which one's McAvoy?" one of the armor-clad cops asked.

Will raised his free hand. A cop slid beside him and slipped a loop of plastic over the arm of Hancock's chair, then moved Hancock's wrist to it, cinching the zip-tie and liberating Will from his post.

"Come with me," another police officer in body armor instructed, reaching for the crook of Will's elbow.

"Wait—_no_—I need to—"

"You have to come with me," the policeman was insistent.

"But—" Will indicated Mac on the other side of Hancock, still gamely hanging on.

"People are coming to take care of this. We'll get her out, too. But for the meantime, we need to clear the room."

"You might want to get a new phone number, Mr. TV Star," Hancock called behind him. "The old one appears to have been compromised, and—anyway—you never know who might be listening."

With a final, anguished look over his shoulder at Mac, Will allowed the second cop to guide him from the room.

Beyond Charlie's office, in the antechamber usually occupied by Millie, a knot of uniformed men conferred. Will saw a pile of military-looking equipment and a thick gray mat, rolled, heaped nearby.

"Blast protection," the officer escorting Will explained, off-handedly. "We've moved Mr. Skinner down the hall and he's waiting for you there. We've set up the ICP in that office—"

"ICP?"

"Sorry, Incident Command Post. All floors above the tenth have been evacuated. Why don't you go down to where we've set up and let our people talk to you?"

"I—" His eyes went back to Charlie's office. "I should stay. I need to be here when she—"

"We've got to make safe whatever device he's got. We can do that better—quicker, more efficiently—if we don't have to worry about civilians—"

"_But she's a civilian, too_," Will insisted.

"No can do." The cop stopped in front of door back to Charlie's office and stood there with arms folded until Will indicated assent. "Go on. We'll let you know when it's clear."

oooo

Somehow, it had gotten warm.

MacKenzie noticed that the sun had shifted and was now streaming through the large windows in quantity enough that she felt the heat, even through the window tint. She tried to rotate her shoulders a bit, just sufficient to relieve the kink in her back without loosening her grasp over Hancock's meaty fist.

"I guess I ought to apologize for getting you involved in this." Hancock offered an apologetic half-smile. "Anyway, this isn't exactly what I had in mind when I left the house this morning. I just wanted to persuade Charlie and this guy Harper—"

"Jim."

"Sure, _Jim_, whatever—I just wanted to make them give another look. Investigate the story fairly. Give _me_ a fair shake. You know, I can explain all that stuff he was given."

"I think you have."

"Yeah."

Several long moments of silence passed between them before an unintelligible radio transmission from the other room broke the pause.

"Why didn't you tell Charlie you'd given him the transcripts of the calls TMI hacked?"

He shrugged. "I wanted him to read my testimony. That was the meat, the important stuff. That other stuff—Charlie's little peccadillo with Mrs. Lansing and whatever McAvoy had going on—sorry, but I don't care about any of the rest of it."

She made a tight nod.

"This Brian guy—he's still around?"

She waited, thinking, before finally responding. "He's still around. Not that—"

"You prefer the TV star?"

"Will isn't—and if you knew him, you'd—he's really got a heart like a—"

"Okay. Got it."

The original cop and one other returned.

"Solomon Hancock, right?" At Hancock's affirmation, the policeman continued. While he did so, the other cop began laying thick pads with straps on the conference table.

"I'm Sergeant Keith. You wanna tell me what we've got here, Mr. Hancock?" He didn't wait for a response—smart move, since Hancock didn't seem to be forthcoming. "Mr. Skinner says you have an explosive device." That merited a single nod from Hancock. "Okay. Timer or detonator?"

"Detonator. Deadman's switch," Mac spoke up, risking Hancock's displeasure. "I've got it here."

Perfunctory nod. "Okay. Where's the package?"

Still without answering directly, Hancock dropped his gaze to indicate under the table.

"Will you tell me what it is?" Sergeant Keith exchanged a look with the second cop, who was untangling the straps on the table. "Mr. McAvoy told us you said it was Semtex—"

"Ten. Semtex 10," Hancock admitted. "No tags. Easier to get ahold of."

"I'll bet it was. Lotsa construction and demolition projects in the big city." The sergeant sighed. "Unfortunately, the shelf life of Semtex 10 isn't long."

"What does that mean?"

"It's volatile, even without the detonation device. We're not even sure how to get it out of the building, for Christ's sake." Pause. "Sorry."

Hancock rolled his shoulders in a gesture of insolence. "A peaceful and happy life is so boring."

Keith snorted and didn't deign to respond.

The second cop came around the table and fastened a heavy black pad over MacKenzie's chest and shoulders. She recognized it as a ballistic vest, probably Kevlar, similar to those she had worn in Afghanistan. But this one was much heavier—obviously, extra protective plates reinforced the padding.

"You're Miss McHale, right? Well, don't worry, ma'am. Our goal is to prevent any sort of detonation, but we want to keep you safe. Chris here is going to be putting some protective armor on you."

More Kevlar following, swathing her torso and limbs (_good thing she'd worn slacks instead of a skirt_), and finally fitting a heavy helmet with a face-shield over her head.

After outfitting her, the cop leaned back and offered her a tentative smile. "Sorry for the baggy fit. We don't normally have stuff in the smaller sizes."

"Here's the deal, Mr. Hancock: we are voting you off the island, effective immediately." Sergeant Keith faced them both. "I'm going to cut the det-cord to your little bag o'boom. As you know, when I do there's still a chance we'll get a bang." He looked sharply at Mac. "We've got everything battened down as far as we can. You just hang in there and give us a few minutes."

oooo

The room to which Will and Charlie had been shunted was an empty office, and Will's eye caught the window as he entered.

Daylight. How could so much have transpired and it still be daylight? In fact—his eye alighting upon the wall clock on the opposite wall—how could so much have happened and it still be five hours before _News Night_ went live?

He wiped at the nervous perspiration on his upper lip and, as he did so, Charlie looked up.

"Hoo, boy," he said in a low voice, shaking his head.

"Charlie, just—just—don't even go there," Will warned even as he turned an anxious glance behind him.

_How long would this take to be resolved? The police were involved now, and the bomb squad. Surely, they could protect Mac—_

"How can I _not_ go there, as you put it? You left this message for her—and then you got lucky, if that's what you want to call it, because she didn't get it. Because your phone got hacked. So now you have to figure out how you're going to walk this back—"

"Not now—this really isn't the time—I don't think we should—"

What he was really thinking was that talking about Mac this way—behind her back, so to speak—didn't only seem disrespectful so much as it seemed like _bad luck_.

Will really didn't want bad luck right now.

"Well, you're not going to be able to _control alt delete_ yourself out of this one," Charlie rumbled in a threatening prognostication.

"When did you turn into a computer nerd?"

"Millie gave it to me as some kind of mantra when she isn't around. But, anyway—"

"Just leave it, Charlie. _Please_."

Will looked a little sick now and Charlie relaxed a smidge.

"New York's finest, Will. She'll be all right."

Will didn't immediately respond, except to walk nearer to the cop at the door, where he seemed on the verge of saying something but held back.

"Let these guys handle it, Will."

"Yeah."

Will paced back and slumped into a chair, eyes cast down.

After several long seconds, Charlie began again, "But it's a crime. A literal crime. What you did."

"_What I did?"_ Will's voice trilled up an octave in indignation.

"To MacKenzie. You made the decision not to say anything the next day. Or the next. Or any day for the next coupla months. And you obviously wouldn't have said anything, _ever_, but for some nut with a bomb walking into my office." Charlie shook his head. "You didn't just withhold knowledge from her, Will—you literally stole it."

"I was _high_, Charlie. _Non compos mentis_. I wasn't responsible."

"It's past time to start, then. Jesus Christ, Will." Charlie rubbed the back of his neck and resumed a skipping gait across the small room. "You need to get over this thing, for your own good, if not for hers and everyone else's. Have the decency. Blame her, if you want, but just get the hell over it."

"I don't know how to—" Will returned, with the heat in his voice flaring then fading. "I know I can't—" he was flailing, "I mean, I know I can't go back." Another long pause. "I just don't know how to go—"

"Forward," Charlie supplied. "Then do the merciful thing and just let her go."

There was a loud _pop_ from outside the door.

Charlie's and Will's eyes met, then in unison looked over to the officers in the room. One dashed out, calling something unintelligible behind him. The other keyed his radio briefly, and not getting the desired response, seemingly decided to abandon the effort and follow his comrade.

"We should probably stay here," Charlie began, uncertainly.

Will didn't wait to hear the rationale, in case Charlie had been planning to offer any, before he was through the doorway himself, rounding the corner and plunging down the short corridor. He was stopped short just before Millie's desk, as two cops jerked Hancock, his hands secured with another zip-tie, from Charlie's office.

Whatever the sound had been, it didn't appear to have been any kind of explosion. The room was intact, the cops animated but professional.

"Mac—where's Mac?"

He looked for someone to ask, someone with whom to interact, but the uniformed personnel were following their own protocols, none of which seemed to involve giving information to the bystanders.

Arriving seconds behind Will, Charlie took in the spectacle of Hancock being taken into custody.

"My god, man—" he sputtered indignantly, "_who_ actually puts brown sugar and catsup in beef stew? You _oughta_ be locked up for—for—well, for _egregious injury to your kids' teeth_."

Will allowed Hancock and the policemen escorting him to pass before he looked through the doorway into Charlie's dark paneled office. He saw two men in thick protective padding fumbling with a thick gray box.

"Stand clear," one of the cops said authoritatively, before they hefted the box and carried it from the office. Will flattened against the wall as they passed, realizing that the two were transporting the explosive material.

With the room emptied of half its occupants, Mac was now easy to spot. She was in Charlie's desk chair, an EMT crouched before her.

"Mac? Are you—"

As the EMT pulled back, allowing Will to come nearer, MacKenzie rolled her eyes up to meet Will's.

She forced a smile. "I'm—fine."

The EMT got to his feet and began gathering his equipment. "Yeah, she's good. A little muscle strain," he advised Will, before turning prescriptively back to her. "Don't forget. Keep your hands elevated as much as possible, and use those cold packs."

She nodded understanding and fumbled with the gel packet resting awkwardly on the back of one hand.

"Here—I can—" Will reached to right the packet, flinching a moment in obvious discomfort before soldiering on. "Let me hold it for you."

"That would probably be more effective." Rueful smile.

"What happened after they made me leave?"

She shrugged. "One of the bomb squad technicians disarmed the device. Just cut the detonator cord. That simple. Even we could have done it, if we'd known that was all that was required."

The second hand of Charlie's desk clock swept a full circle as he pressed the gel pack to the back of one hand, then the other.

"Mac, I want to say that—"

"_Don't_. Let's not, not right now." She forced another smile and flexed her fingers, before waving off the compress. "Thanks, I think that will be enough for—"

He tried again, putting his hand lightly on hers. "Mac, you really need to hear what I—"

"No, _I really don't_. Because I won't be able to un-hear it and I'll be expected to later." She took a calming breath. "Right now, I think that we are both better served if we just forget most of the things that were said earlier. I like my job and I've liked whatever this _new-normal_ thing is that we've cultivated recently. I'm not going to imperil either of those by exhuming careless remarks you may have made when you were hammered beyond comprehension."

"I wasn't _that_ hammered," he corrected gently. "I knew what I was saying enough to remember it the next morning."

"And that just makes it worse, Will," she lobbed back. "You never made any effort to confirm I'd gotten the message, or even to redress what you presumed by my silence was my response. So, I'm giving you a way out. We can both just—forget about the call. It never happened."

"I don't want a way out, Mac."

She sighed and withdrew her hand from his grasp. "You say that, and yet Brian will be in my newsroom when I go back downstairs. Your words don't match your actions."

"Hey, we just got the all clear for this floor," Charlie whooped, leaning in the door. Then, intuiting that he was interrupting something, he pulled back. "But take your time. There's, um, no hurry. None at all."

When she turned her attention back to Will, he had his phone to his ear. "Jim—yeah, it was—yeah, she's all right, too. Jim, I've changed my mind about something. Find Brenner and tell him his services are no longer required—"

Mac stared at him, wondering where this was going.

"—I've decided to just let the broadcast speak for itself. Between you and me, it just isn't worth it in terms of the disharmony in the newsroom with him there. Tell him I'll make good the kill fee. That's right." Will listened for a few moments then responded, "Charlie just told us we're clear, so I think the rest of you will be able to come back in the building in time for the final rundown. Yeah. The show must go on, right? See you then."

Putting the phone down on the desk, he took a deep breath for the obvious next part.

"MacKenzie, I'm sorry for that. For bringing him here." He paused and swallowed. "But that side-by-side comparison stuff—_that_ was real."

"Will," she reproved, softly. "There's never been any comparison. I wish you had believed that, then and now. I wish—I wish I'd done more to make it believable."

One side of his mouth hitched up in a pleased look, and he braved another declaration. "I—I showed you a ring, but I didn't buy it four years ago." Eyes closed now, he exhaled forcefully, wanting to put this part behind him as quickly as possible. "I bought it just a few months ago, and I bought it precisely because I knew you were doing the oppo research on me and you'd find that stupid memo about the deal that never was—"

"A few months ago?" That seemed to take her breath away. "But you said—"

"I lied. I lied and I'm so, so sorry. But—and you really have to believe me on this, Mac—that ring was always meant for you, no one else. I've been working my way back and this was just the road I had to travel." He swallowed. "If you'll let me—I'll go back and cross all my burning bridges."

"I can't go back to the beginning, Will. It just hurts too damn much."

"I'm not asking you to." He knelt back down and took her hand in his. "Let's just try this again, from now."


End file.
